


The Monster in the Closet

by Moontyger



Category: Hellblazer
Genre: Canon-typical language, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3776953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/pseuds/Moontyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Constantine said, "Jump," Chas asked, "How high?"  He always knew it was going to get him into trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monster in the Closet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luckyghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckyghost/gifts).



I always knew what John Constantine was about. Hard not to, after what happened with my mum and Slag and all. I knew, but it wasn't the type of thing you went talking about, so I didn't. And it wasn't that I thought he'd do anything if I told, not like her. It was just better for everyone if I kept my mouth shut and didn't ask too many questions.

I knew, too, that he was bad news. He told me that himself when he was in a mood, told me that if I knew what was good for me, I'd clear out and keep my distance. Renee said it, too, though with her, it had nothing to do with her mood; she just said it all the time. And I'm not stupid, whatever anyone thinks. I'm a big bloke who drives a cab, never went to university or had grand ambitions, but I've got eyes. I saw what happened to most people who got too close to John and I knew there was nothing keeping it from happening to me except dumb luck.

But I also knew John didn't do it on purpose. Oh, he could be a prick, right enough, but he didn't set out to get anyone hurt – at least not his mates – and I wasn't about to do any different. If I did that, just walked out on him because, betting aside, he had the worst luck of anyone I'd ever seen, what kind of man would I be? 

Not that I didn't cut him off a time or two. Hard not to; he could try the patience of a saint when he wanted to. (Knowing John, he probably had.) And me, I'm no saint. But somehow it never lasted. I'd swear it was the last straw, that we were well and truly done, then next thing I knew, I'd be answering the phone at some godforsaken hour and heading out to give him a ride to who-knows-where.

I never asked myself why. Maybe I just didn't want to think about it. Or maybe I didn't see the point. There are things that never change and me going back to John was one of them, just like the sun rising in the morning. No point in asking why about something like that.

I guess John had his own ideas, though. He told me once, one night when we were piss drunk, weaving our way down the sidewalk to his door. “Y'know, Chas,” he said, peering at me with wide unfocused eyes. “We both know how you feel about me. When are you going to do something about it?”

I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. Told him I had Renee and for all the shit we gave each other, I loved her.

He blinked at me, then said something that I never quite got out of my head after that. “What makes you think you can only love one person at a time?”

“Get to bed. You're drunk and don't know what you're saying.” And maybe he didn't, because he never mentioned it again. Maybe he didn't remember the conversation at all. 

I probably should have forgotten it, too, but I didn't. I kept it close, sometimes took it out to turn it around and get a feel for it. If that idea were something tangible, it'd be all dirty and covered in my fingerprints by now. Hell, it didn't need to be something physical for that - sometimes ideas are like that, too, they get grubby and faded with time. But not this one.

Still, I'd never been into that sort of thing, not like John. Free love and everything that went with it, that wasn't my scene, never had been. I'd moan about being tied down, the missus expecting me back and getting on my case, but the truth was I liked it. John got by swimming in the deep water, but I needed solid ground beneath my feet. I was the rock John could cling to when it all got too much, but Renee was the reason I didn't give way beneath him.

So I thought about it, sure, but thinking was all I did. I never expected that to change, because why would it?

But change always takes you by surprise, happens while you're looking the other way. Like magic, if you believed John, but I couldn't say about that bit.

One night, John called me up. Like always, it wasn't just late, it had nearly gone three o'clock in the morning and I almost told him to piss off. But John sounded like he was in a bad way, like he had the DTs dialed up to eleven, and like I said before, I'm shit at saying no when he asks. Renee barely even bothered by then, so she just kind of rolled her eyes at me and told me to make sure not to make too much noise leaving. She could have told me not to go, yelled at me or issued ultimatums, but we both knew there wasn't much point. 

I made my way over to John's, swearing to myself that if this was nothing or just one of his occasional pranks, I'd tell him no flat out next time. I probably couldn't have stood by it, but it didn't matter. I couldn't tell just what he'd been doing, but things in John's flat were weird, even to an ordinary bloke like me.

There was this smell - really more of a stench - in the air, for one. I couldn't place it, at least not all of it, but part of it smelled like a mix between a church and a butcher shop. It made me feel sick, to tell you the truth. There was blood in the sink and on the bathroom mirror, but no sign of where it had come from. And John told me not to look in the closet.

If he were anyone else, I'd have thought he was joking. Hell, I still thought he might have been; he liked to poke fun at the gullible and no one was entirely safe from his sense of humor. But it seemed too ridiculous even for his style – John Constantine, afraid of the monster in the closet like a child?

Maybe I should have looked, but I didn't. John told me not to, so I took his word for it. Why not? It was just how things were between us.

Instead, I looked at him. He looked as bad as he'd sounded – his skin was this sickly grayish-white and his eyes were all bloodshot. For the first time, I wondered if the blood in the sink might be his. Then he grabbed me and dragged me down onto his ratty couch next to him and just held on after, like he was afraid he'd be swept away by some kind of current I couldn't see.

That's when I knew things were real bad, more so than I'd thought. John Constantine had his reputation and his pride; he wouldn't let anyone see him like this if he had a choice. So I stayed where I was, my best mate practically on my lap, and kind of awkwardly patted him on the back. Usually John called me if he thought there might be a punch up or if he needed a ride, not to hold his hand, and there was a good reason for that.

The silence got longer and more awkward and finally I couldn't take it. “All right, John. What's happened?”

Instead of answering, he kissed me. I just sat there like a lump and took it, neither kissing him back nor pushing him away. From what I said earlier, you might've thought I'd imagined this a hundred times, but the truth was that I hadn't, not like that. I've got no illusions about who I am or the differences between John and me and for all his bullshit, I knew he could do a lot better.

Which is what I said when he stopped trying to force me to do one or the other and just looked at me. He didn't look hurt, just kind of lost, and fuck, you wouldn't think a smarmy git like John could pull off that expression, especially not when neither of us was going to see the sunnier side of forty again. Somehow he made it work, so I tried again.

“You know it's not like that with you and me.”

“But it could be.”

“Maybe once,” I said, though I didn't see how. John and I were always heading in different directions; we'd almost never been in the same place at the same time, if you see what I mean. If he'd kissed me back then, when we were both not much more than kids, I'd have probably punched him. Maybe he knew that and that's why he'd never tried it. “But that was a long time ago.”

Things were different now: I wasn't that kid anymore with his fragile pride, looking to be something he wasn't if it meant people would like him more. I didn't have anything to prove; I knew who I was and if I wasn't always happy about it, I'd accepted it just the same. But other things had changed, too. That kid didn't have much more than his pride to lose, but while I hadn't gotten rich during the years that separated us, I had other things I wanted to hold onto.

John was looking better by now; arguing agreed with him. No surprise there – he'd always been stubborn. He sat up, grabbed the pack of Silk Cut on the table, shook one out and lit it, just like always, though I noticed his hands were shaking. He took a deep drag, looked at me, then blew it all out, long and slow. “You can't tell me you never thought about it.” He smirked, just a little, and almost looked like his usual self.

I kind of shrugged, because sure, maybe I couldn't, but I'd never thought about it the way you think about things you're actually going to do. “What brought this on?”

“I was just thinking -”

“You're never just thinking,” I interrupted, but he just kept going.

“Everyone else,” and here he waved a hand to the room at large, gesturing as though we were surrounded by people I couldn't see, “they're all dead and gone. Just ghosts, hanging around out of habit. But not you.”

“Not yet,” I pointed out. He was starting to give me the creeps, which given the things I'd seen with him was really saying something. But I knew those people he was talking about, at least some of them, and had some idea what had become of them, too. They'd paid the price for hanging around with John Constantine, the same price I owed about a thousand times more than they did. I wasn't exactly eager to join them, but I wasn't running out of there either. Don't ask me why; maybe I'm just a sucker or maybe I was already in too deep. “Seriously, mate. Why?”

“Why not? Just this once.”

“It's _never_ 'just this once' with you,” I said, and heard Renee's voice echoed in my own. I knew then I was lost. When you're using someone else's excuses, you've run out of your own. Guess I didn't have as many as I'd always thought.

Of course, that was when John shrugged, stubbing out his butt in an already overflowing ashtray. “All right, I can take a hint. Forget it.”

He always did know just what buttons to push. “Too late,” I told him, then pinned him to the couch and kissed him like I'd been waiting half my life for that moment. However John told it, it wasn't like that, or not all the time. It just felt like it, that night.

And then I - well, no point in getting into the details of what happened next. There was only way it could end from there; maybe only one way it could end from the moment I took that call.

After the first time, we moved to the bed. It wasn't much more comfortable than the couch, but at least it was bigger. I never looked at the closet door or even thought about what John had said, even though we were right next to it. I had other things on my mind.

But later, when John was snoring beside me and the sun was starting to get serious about shining through his window, the stench I had somehow stopped noticing got worse and I thought I heard this weird laughter, deep and kind of distorted, like a bad recording.

Maybe I imagined it; I don't know. I'm not a kid anymore to stay up all night like that without feeling it. And here's the thing: the parent opens the closet door because they know there's no monster inside. But if there is, or even just really fucking might be, that's a whole other story.

I didn't know what might be in there and I didn't know what I was going to tell Renee. I could say I did it for John, of course, just one more way of helping him out of a jam. It'd even be true, but it's not the whole truth and I never could lie about things like that worth a damn. With that way Renee had of seeing right through me, I might show up at home and find my bags already on the doorstep. Maybe not, though; I think she'd been expecting something like this for a long time.

One thing I did know, though. I'd been right about what I told John: whatever our intentions might be, it wouldn't be just this once. We wouldn't plan it and we damn well wouldn't talk about it. It would just be there, hiding in plain sight and waiting for us to notice it standing there, right in front of us. Just like that monster or ghost or portal to hell or whatever it really was in that damn closet.


End file.
